Dangerous Games
by Scarslett
Summary: A man with plans to bring a city to its knees, an unnamed girl in the right place at the right time. Rated mature for violent content, language, and some adult scenarios to come.
1. Chapter 1

/I don't want to play this game anymore/

He's coming down the hall, towards the corner I'm hiding behind. Cold concrete shocks my fingertips and numbs my bare feet. I can hear his footsteps, playful and deliberate as my pulse screams my location. I have an urge, a dangerous craving, like when you're at the edge of a cliff and for a few seconds you want nothing more than to jump, I want to peer around the corner. To see if he has that knife, or a gun.

No, you want him to see you. My head whispers, laughing at me again. Lately I can't get rid of it. Malnutrition and the drugs, as soon as you get out of here it'll go away. It'll go away.

"C'mere you stupid whore! I know you're there." This comes viciously, he's angry at having to chase me. Then his voice lowers, talking to himself in his British cockney accent. "Can't run far without shoes, dumb bitch."

I shake my head unconsciously in my flimsy hiding place, feeling the sting of tears to come. My nose runs and my throat closes. Stop crying.

The footsteps get louder, and I hear a distinctive metallic click. The knife. He wouldn't he wouldn't he wouldn't, I know he wouldn't.

"I've never been accused of bein' a patient guy. Get your ass back 'ere. I tol' you, you ever take anyfin' from me and I fuckin' kill you. There ain't nowhere to go, I'll find you wherever, I got people in this city."

He would.

The thought cuts across my mind, bouncing sharply off the edges. He would.

It spurs me to run. I no longer care if he hears. I race down the hall, pipes drip and I splash through something, keep going, my feet slapping painfully against artificial stone. I find a door, and race through it, almost falling. My feet are numb, but I scramble to stand, to gain momentum. Like a dream, I can't gain purchase. Even as I tear up the steps, grasping the railing to keep myself upright, I feel like I'm trying to run through water. I throw open the door at the top, I've run straight into the empty parking garage. There's nowhere to hide, empty space after empty space blurs as my eyes fill again. I don't want to die.

There has to be a way out, so I just keep running. Tears and snot paste my hair to my face as it escapes my blonde pigtails. I shove it away mid-step, attempting to forget the cold and the ache in my side. Empty empty empty. I'm incredibly dizzy, and I ignore that too. I'm suddenly thrown outside of my body, viewing myself.

[Everything slows down; the lights of the parking garage blur around the clear figure of a girl, barefoot, mottled purple and white with cold. She's blonde; her hair is in childish pigtails, despite her obvious age of about 17. Her blue eyes are reddish and ringed with bruise-like patches. She's wearing cut off shorts and a white t-shirt. All that can be heard is her pulse, pounding in the air, and her short gasps of breath. Silence explodes as she runs straight into the figure of a man.]

I hit him before I even know he's there, and my mind is rudely smashed back in sync with my body. I'm enveloped in purple suede and the scent of gasoline, smoke, and something metallic I can't quite identify. The force of my movement doesn't even faze him, he doesn't move an inch. I back away quickly and stare up at him in shock. He's dressed in a dark purple greatcoat, matching slacks, a green silk vest, tie, and a blue shirt patterned with hexagons. But what takes my attention is his face; he's wearing Halloween greasepaint, smeared in places, blending together. Thick white covers the flesh tone, black is applied haphazardly around his dark eyes, and red is sketched across his mouth and onto two thick scars that stretch from the corners of his mouth to his cheekbones. A perpetual grin, accented by the paint. His hair is dyed a fading green that doesn't prove much coverage for its original blonde-brown. It hangs in lank, wavy strands to his broad shoulders. He's much taller than me, and his thinness exaggerates it, though he slumps strangely. I don't move, though I think that I really need to. Oh, he's dangerous. More dangerous than what you came from. He looks down at me languidly, sucks in his scarred cheeks and lets them back out with a smacking sound.

"Well, uh, hi there lil girl." His voice is oddly pitched, both high and gravelly at the same time. A contradiction that suits him somehow. He twitches an eyebrow at me, cocking his head to the left and licking at the corners of his mouth. I think he's being a lech until I notice that he looks utterly bored.

"Hi." The word comes out in a rush with my breath, though I don't mean it to. He isn't looking at me anymore, though, but behind me and towards the sound of running steps. You idiot, you should've run while you had the chance, you deserve whatever he does. I clutch at my new acquaintance's arm in fear, though somehow I know he's worse than the pimp I stole from.

"Hey bitch, whatchu fink you're doin'? Fink the freak in a clown costume'll save you? Get the fuck over here, or I swear I'll cut off all your skin fore I cut your pretty neck." He's winded, chasing me took its toll on him, but he has the knife in his hand and it immobilizes me once again. I hear an exaggerated sigh, and look up sharply at the "freak" it was emitted from.

"Ya know," He pauses and sucks sharply on his teeth. His voice is deeper this time, closer to how it would be if he wasn't deliberately messing with its tone, but there's still a high edge to it. "Mickey, isn't it? Ya look like a Mickey. You're not all that smart, are ya?"

"Who the fuck are you? Gimme back my whore, or I'll carve somefin else to match your screwy face."

My companion busts out laughing, high pitched giggles echoing across the empty space. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet in mirth, and suddenly he darts forward towards Jared, whom he just rechristened Mickey. There's a blade in his hand, with a thin gap in the center. It reminds me of a potato peeler. Within seconds, it's in Jared's mouth, pressed against the corner, hard. My acting savior has a hand around his exposed throat as my pimp is shoved into a concrete wall.

"Now, ah, where were we Mickey? Right, you're not all that smart, are ya?" Errant chuckles are still escaping the purple figure that towers over five foot six Jared. Jared, the man I had been afraid of for the last twelve years, was whimpering in terror.

"I'll kill you I swear, I got people!" The accent is thickening, whimpers turning to sobs, and I'm just left to stare. I don't think about what this strange man will do to me once he's done with "Mickey", I don't even think to run. I can barely keep myself from laughing and sobbing hysterically, joyfully. Jared Quinn is afraid. He's afraid and I'm… not.

"Sh,sh,sh." The knife is now stroking shakily down the side of his face, the purple gloved hand keeps him from jerking away with a firm grip around his neck. "Ohhh, youuuu people," The knife is shaken in his face like the reprimanding finger of a father. "you're the type a guy who thinks he's gotta control everything, aren'tcha? Power complex, hm? You people are just sooo…boring. Ah, and since you brought it up. Ya wanna know how I got these scars?"

AN: umm...hi there... first chapter, tell me if I should write more, what I can do better on, etc. :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

/Burn it to the Ground/

"Who th'fuck are you? Please, stop 'im. Do somefin, call the coppers, make 'im lemme go. Just make 'him lemme go." The words come out smaller than anything Jared's ever said, strangled from the pressure of imminent demise, looking at me –stupid whore-asking me to save him. He's terrified and I can't say I blame him, but five years of enslavement have kind of taken the empathy right out of me. My heart is shuddering in my chest, and I'm barely upright as it is. Incurring the wrath of a killer clown to save my pimp isn't exactly a job I'm going to volunteer for.

"Think a lil _giiirl's_ gonna save you, tskkk." He draws out the sound, shaking his head to one side, "Now as I was, uh, sayyyingg before you so ruuudely interrupted. Sh, look at me."

Jared's eyes are now locked with his executioner, who licks his lips quickly while sucking in a sharp breath, like a snake. Animal, predator, human. You should be running. I know, I really should. I just can't seem to move.

"Once upon a time, I was like, well… like _youuu_. I had this girlfriend, see? Cute as a _button_, like _her_." An erratic gesture is made in my direction with that knife, "We need a bit of money, so she goes out one night, and comes back with plenty from an _unnamed source_. Now in a city like this, it isn't hard to, uh, figure out where she got it from." He pauses to emphasize with raised brows and a short nod, so that the idea _your business _is implied. "And I didn't like that, thought she was playin a dangerous game with _scary people_. She deniiies it, so I follow her the next night, right down the _wrong alleyway__,_if you will. They shove her into the dumpster when they're done, and then they deal with _me_. And now…" A soft huff of laughter and a severely yellowed grin, "I always see the, well, the funny side."

The laughter this time is even more raucous. It takes over the entire parking garage in vicious curls of sound, gets inside my head and echoes. It's like an infection, he's terrifying and mesmerizing and I can't take my eyes away, even as he carves Jared's face into unrecognizable shreds of skin and muscle tissue. There's blood everywhere, more than I've ever seen before, and I only have time to register Jared's horrible cries when he comes towards me. The psychopathic mockery of a clown is headed my way, blood on his odd violet gloves in dark streaks, blood on the knife. Conveniently, I've gained control of my shaking limbs again. I back away, without looking, right into a humongous support column. Effectively cornered, I keep my eyes on the predator. He's walking towards me lazily, tossing the knife between his hands. He doesn't look bored anymore, he looks alive. Energy is coiled around him, in every small movement he makes. Broad shoulders roll and he cocks his head to the side sharply, producing a crack. He's finally in front of me and I squeeze my eyes shut for a split second.

"What's your _name_, dollface?"

"Ha-Harley." I don't anticipate his laugh, and I jump at the sound.

"Ha-Harley, hmm?" He chortles again, ducks to get right in my face, "You're, uh, comin' with me _Haaarley_."

I get the sudden urge to spit at him, one enslavement for another, I don't damn think so. My bitch streak shows up as a survival instinct… I think.

"You're a fucking psychopath, I'm not going anywhere with you." _Deeeeeath wiiiish _my head sings at me, giggling.

"Wul, you can stay here, but you're kinda turning ah, _blue_, Harls."

"You're going to kill me, like Jared." I go from bitchy to weak in moments, I have nothing left. No energy, no bravery, no resolve. I'm nearly dead from two directions: psychopath and cold, I can't muster up the force to move even my hands. My knees give out and I slide to the ground. That's right; I slide to the floor, the picture of weakness, in front of the man who seems to enjoy terrifying and brutally murdering people. _Weak, weak, weak. Tsk tsk tsk. You deserve this. Whatever he does to you._

"Now why would I do something like _thaattt, _beautiful? I'm not some kind of a—" An unspecified gesture with the knife, "a _psycho_. He was, ah, asking for it, but _youuu_, you look like fun. Whatcha say, doll? Wanna have some _fun_?" This speech is peppered with dark sarcasm and I get the sense that there's a twisted joke or two behind it. _Oh, you're in trouble, he's got _plans _for you._

"Somehow I don't think you're talking about a card game." I barely manage to speak, and the venomous sass that's going to get me killed is back. He starts laughing, like laughing is going out of style, like it's the funniest sentence that anyone has ever uttered to him. Doubled over, he stumbles back, hysterical giggles and howls of mirth echoing off the concrete once again. Flashing that yellowing, rotted grin as my head starts to ache.

"Ohh, I _like _you. We're gonna have a _blaaas_t, Harley-girl. C'mon." He grabs my forearm and hauls me to my feet, still letting out uncontrollable tee-hee's. I don't see what's so damn funny or if I ever agreed to anything, but I'm being dragged along as he makes a phone call and can't exactly fight back. _He can't be worse than where I was before, can he? I just don't care. I don't care. _Apathy and exhaustion erode any ideas of mutinous gestures, I've effectively given up.

"Listen boys, make room for one more, lil girl name of _Haaarley_." A pause as whoever's on the other line speaks, "uhh, did I say anything about _that, _Timmy?" the clown's tone gets dangerous, all traces of humor gone. If he's smart, Timmy backpedalling as fast as he damn well can. "Exaaactly. Set them, drop off that uh, _package_. Time for the _party_." He hangs up the cell and tosses it to the side.

**AN: Hello again, sorry for the shortness of the chapters, but no worries, I've got a lot planned for the future. *GASP* HARLEY? Sort of... you'll see. ;D Again, thanks for reading, please review, even if you just say "My god that totally sucked what's wrong with you!" I don't mind, really. I'd rather know than wonder. What'd you like and/or dislike about this chapter? I plan to update as soon as I get another chapter written, and I'm a quarter of the way through the next so it should be soon! Thank you again for the support, hugs and hand grenades!**


	3. Chapter 3

/ Trouble's what you're in…Trouble, you know it. Trouble—soft target /

—Trouble's What You're In by Fink

When I start walking on my own, he lets me go and pushes me ahead of him. I comply, having no other option. He's left Jared's blood on my forearm and probably on the shoulder of my t-shirt, but if I'm being honest with myself, it's no more disgusting than anything else I've dealt with. I'm not worried about blood; I'm worried about the man behind me and what he has planned for me. He hasn't said a word since he called his 'boys', so I take the (rather stupid) initiative.

"Hey. Who..um..Who are you? If you don't mind me asking," I slow down so I'm at his side and look up at him.

His reply is unexpected and I flinch. I figured he wouldn't say a thing, or slap me. Or tell me a horrible story and then kill me.

He looks down at me oddly…as if _confused_.

"Ya watch a lotta news, Harls?"

"I'm not from here. I'm from L.A., he, Jared picked me up there and we skip cities every six months, if I'm supposed to know you I'm sorry."

He chuckles darkly and throws an arm around my shoulder, pulling me close and ducking down to get in my face, locking eyes with me. Before I have time to be terrified he produces a playing card from…somewhere, and tucks it into the front pocket of my shorts. "Here's my card." He takes his arm away as we exit the garage, and I rub my shoulder to get rid of the creepy feeling of his arm around me that's still lingering.

I pull the card out to study it as he walks ahead of me into the dirty yellow-orange glow from the street lamps. It's a joker card, with the picture of a laughing demon in a jester cap.

"The Joker." I whisper the name to myself. I'd heard the name before, but never a story to go with it. Not like this. He called himself the Joker? A wry smirk makes its way onto my tear-stained face. I could see why. I finally understood why he'd started guffawing when I'd mentioned card games. A thought born of superstition and fantasies like destiny hit me_. What card am I?_

I put the card into my back pocket and jog to catch up with him.

We exit into watery streetlights, reflecting off patches of oil and water on the rotting asphalt. Patches of mist are forming above the street; there are cars in the distance, and screams. The street is abandoned, but for the trash and ourselves. There's a scent of rain mixing, not unpleasantly, with exhaust. I breathe deeply and stick close to my new jailer. The Narrows at night are a dangerous place if you're no longer under what protection being someone else's property gives you. He seems like the kind of guy the other guys don't fuck with, so I figure as long as I'm with him I'm safer than alone. _Except, of course, from the psycho himself_.

Three men emerge like a cheap magic trick from the shadows of the sidewalk, loping towards us. One has his gun on display in his belt, another holds a metal pipe, and the third holds a sawed-off shotgun.

"Evening, boys. How'd it go?" The Joker raises his arms in theatrical welcome, though his tone is all business.

The first to reach us is a younger man, 20-22, about 5'11", wearing dirty jeans and a black t-shirt. His nose has obviously been broken several times, and he's wearing a little bit more than a five o' clock shadow.

"Hey boss. Just like you said, no problems." His gaze turns to me and a calculating look appears.

"Harley, the boys, boys Harley." The Joker pulls me to his side once again, resting his gloved hand on my hip. I make a supreme effort to stay absolutely still. I keep my hands at my sides, balled into fists. _Don't provoke the beast._

"She's a pretty little thing." This comes from the second man to reach us; he's short and squat with a face like a frog. When he thinks the Joker isn't looking, he makes a nasty gesture with his hands and leers at me. It seems he's underestimated his boss's vision, though, because within seconds he has a gun to his temple. Where'd the gun come from?

"Timmy, uh, is she going to be a problem? Will she drive ya too _cuhraazy_? With your lil," He gestures as if searching for the word, "_Glitch_? Cause she's, well, uh, she's _mine_. So you're gonna be polite, aren'tcha Timmy? See, I'm a _territorial_ kinda guy." He raises his eyebrows in mock sincerity as his tone drops.

Timmy again. The other two guys are looking on, not without amusement. Timmy looks like he's going to shit his pants. He drops the pipe he's holding with a sharp _clang._

"Sorry, boss." The man's voice is a whisper, laced with horror.

"Now_, I'm _not the one you gotta _apologize_ to," The Joker's tone gets frighteningly deep and harsh. He grabs Timmy's jaw and squeezes, turning his head towards me.

I almost let loose a hysterical giggle. The Joker's grip on the guy's face has turned him into a veritable fish.

"Say you're _sorry_ Timmy." The gun is now pressed firmly against the back of his head. The Joker's voice has gotten high and nasally again. His speech pattern is incredibly random; I can't tell if he's more angry when he's at a high or low pitch. Maybe he isn't even angry, just playing with the guy. _Or putting on a show._

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I didn't mean anything!" The Joker looks at me and wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially with a slight grin.

Then he shoots Timmy in the head.

I don't feel like laughing anymore. My ears echo with the sound of the shot, and I'm shocked at myself for being surprised. This man had somehow lulled me into complacency. The sickness is starting in my stomach as I remember how much danger I'm in. _And he said you're his, _**dollface**. My head, mocking me again. _Think that means you're his _friend? _You're property again, different man, same situation. Or maybe worse! _The voice giggles madly and I tell it to shut up.

The fear is rushing back. My brain won't let me be apathetic anymore. My heart starts racing again. _Danger. Run_. But I can't, because if I run he'll shoot me. Dead if I stay, dead if I go. There's another thing, where would I go? Even if I could get away, a barefoot blonde in shorts, running through the Narrows at two in the morning? There's one hell of an easy target. My mind has frozen up, no ideas. My head is pounding, I'm sick to my stomach. I'm breathing too fast, probably hyperventilating, but I can't calm down.

The Joker saunters over to me. The gun has gone back from whence it came, wherever that is. He throws an arm around my shoulders again and turns to face the other two guys.

"A _s_ our friend _s o _eloquently _demonstrated, s he _is off limit _s_." He slams into every s, tasting them and then spitting them out with a slight affected lisp, punctuating words with erratic hand gestures. "Got it?"

"Got it, boss. No problem." The guys nod, all traces of humor gone. _They'd rather not be next. _Then I see what he's done. By staging this whole performance, he's made sure that these (likely) unsavory characters leave me alone. _How kind of hi__, _I think sardonically. I'm well aware that he didn't do it for my benefit. He needs me unspoiled for some grim purpose. _Lucky fuckin' me._

"Right, where's our _ride_, boys?"

The guy I'm beginning to think is beta here, broken nose, answers, "On their way, boss. I got a text about a minute ago— they had some trouble."

"_Trouble_? They had _trouble_?" The Joker sounds falsely incredulous and then evens out again, "What _kind_ of trouble, Alex?"

"They said…something about…well.." Alex sounds like he doesn't exactly want to break the news. His tone turns hushed, "The Batman, boss. He's back, two months without a sighting and they say they saw him. He tried to shut 'em down, but they were already done and cleared out."

The air is still for several painfully tense moments before the Joker speaks.

"Are they…_suuure_ it isn't a _copycat_?" He slams into the T, half-turning his head and exhaling with a humorless half smile, licking visibly at a bottom molar, "Cause if it's not, the, uh, _game_ is on again, which means we have to _prepaaare _things for the, ah, _big debut."_

Alex looks wary, "They said it was him, no doubt. No gun, came out of nowhere and disappeared again."

I'm released; the Joker paces and rubs his hands together, muttering to himself about not being so _booored_ anymore. At that moment a windowless white van pulls up and two guys jump out, opening the back.

"Yo boss, who's the girl?"

"Harley, meet the rest of the gang."

He quickly motions between them and I as an introduction and then climbs into the back of the vehicle. I follow, planting myself on the metal bench across from him, pulling my knees up to my chest and watching him warily. He isn't paying attention to me, though, so I relax slightly. He seems to be lost in thought.

He sits with his feet wide, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing his gloved palms together. Jared's blood has dried, and is flaking off of the leather.

The van starts to move with a jerk, and I'm thrown to the side. I scramble to keep from falling off of the bench. I look up at him just in time to catch a smirk. He hasn't even moved. The smirk disappears and his face goes blank again, but for the painted grin.

I try to keep my eyes on him, just in case he decides to get up and murder me, but my exhaustion is setting in. I haven't slept more than three hours in the last few days. Despite my efforts, my eyes start to close. Every time I open them I get the sense that increments of time are disappearing, but he hasn't moved. Finally, I can't wake myself up anymore. I slip into oblivion with the monster at my side.


	4. Chapter 4

/I'm not even legal, I'm just a dead little girl/

-Gothic Lolita by Emilie Autumn

_I'm dancing with the beast. The Joker. He grins wider and wider still as the room begins to spin. It seems like he has five hundred teeth, all bared impossibly, and then his face rips open. The gore melts to the floor, covering my feet in crimson gel and tooth fragments. He starts laughing, and disappears. Malicious howls at a joke only he understands. The bloody sea level rises until I'm up to my neck in the viscous mess, struggling to keep my head above it. I don't dare scream, for fear of it getting into my mouth. I can feel it soaking into my hair, dying the ends of my pigtails scarlett. Jared floats by me, smiling widely. His face is unmarked, but his eyes are bloody. The sea roils, the laughter never ceases. Finally I can't help it, I scream as loud as I can. Terror and a form of anger pour from me in horrific noise. The blood recedes as if sucked out with a vacuum, taking every noise with it. I'm left in a white place, surrounded by nothing. A door opens from thin air and the Joker steps out, his face intact again. Or as intact as it was when I met him. He's bare-faced, no grease paint in sight, though he's still wearing the clownish ensemble. I can study the scars in full detail without the red paint, thick and curved. They look like they weren't healed with much care, as if the wounds were sewn roughly together and left to do what they would. I feel an empathetic ghost of pain across my mouth for a second. I wonder who did this to him. Who was stronger than this man? Who was worse? Or maybe he wasn't always powerful, maybe he was weak once. Like myself, too weak in body and mind to prevent horrible people from damaging me. My mind rejects the idea; his power is practically supernatural. His speech and mannerisms too oddly defined. I can't help but believe that he's always been like this, never an infant, never a child. He simply sprang into the world, an entity of chaotic energy and terror. You can't think of a predatory cat as something that might once have been a kitten, it doesn't compute. Meanwhile the object of my analysis is in front of me just staring. His eyes are empty of the usual sick laughter. There's no anger. Suddenly he's no longer the Joker. Standing before me is a harlequin clown, a painted white girl wearing a black metalwork mask, lips clearly defined in blood-red pigment. Her tutu matches her lipstick, adorned underneath with diamond-cut fish nets. Fingerless red leather gloves stretch to her elbows. Mid-calf, five-inch, platform combat boots and a black over-bust corset complete the odd outfit. There are three black diamonds painted on each upper arm. Her hair is a mirror of mine, twin blonde ponytails with bloody tips. She speaks:_

_"Harley, Harley, Harley. You're such a delicate lil girl. You break so easy, I mean jeesh! But that's okay!" She lunges towards me, throwing her arms around my frame. "I'll take care of ya, sweetie. We'll be fine, just let me handle it, aright?" The clown girl grins in my face, pressing her nose to mine and gripping the sides of my head; her lipstick is sticking to her teeth in streaks of crimson. She hops away from me with a giggle and cartwheels into the white space, disappearing quickly._

I wake up with a jolt. She had my voice, the harlequin had my voice. Then my brain starts working again_. Of course she did. It was your dream.__** DUHH**_**.**

A dream, yes, but the most realistic dream I'd ever experienced. Another irrational thought_. I wondered what card I was; I think I just found out. Queen of diamonds. Oh shut up, you are fuck nuts._

I opened my eyes fully to my surroundings. I was in what looked to be a run-down apartment. I had been left on a dirty mattress in the middle of the room. Cold daylight filtered in from the boarded-over windows. I sat up quickly and inspected myself. My clothes were intact; there were no new marks on my skin. I let out a breath and got up to explore further.

I walked out of the living room, where the mattress had been haphazardly dropped, and into what served as a kitchen. There were no appliances, just a sink. A few of the cupboards were broken from their hinges and rotting. Shards of glass were littered about, so I stepped carefully. I had to find some shoes.

I tried the tap on impulse, and to my surprise it worked. The pressure was fine. I washed my face and dried it on my t-shirt, then drank directly from the faucet.

I left the kitchen and made my way to the bathroom, which was in better shape. I tried the water in the tub, and it worked well, just like in the kitchen. The shower curtain was on the floor, torn from its rings. It was intact, and took me only a minute to reattach. I searched the rest of the bathroom, and found plenty of previously owned toiletries. Gold mine. Whoever had lived here before had apparently left too fast to gather them, and thieves probably had no interest in them. On a hunch I checked the linen closet; I was well rewarded. Towels were all there, a full set, though they'd been tossed to the floor. I gathered everything and locked the door to the bathroom. If someone wanted to get in it wouldn't stop them, but I'd at least be forewarned.

I started the shower and stripped nervously, I wouldn't put it past the Joker to have set this up as a sick prank. I scrubbed myself raw, wanting to be rid of the events of the last five years. I was free. Freer than I had been two days ago, anyway. Jared could no longer get to me. Images from my dreams flashed at me but I dismissed them firmly, he's dead. He can't damage me. I was suddenly consumed with rage. No one would damage me any more. I didn't fight to leave for nothing. I punched the tiled shower wall as hard as I could. Yeah, dumb move. I regretted it immediately. A yell of agony echoed against the walls of the small space, from me, I realized. Then sucked in a breath and gritted my teeth. I had broken tile, and that meant I was bleeding. Chips were sticking out of my busted knuckles.

What had come over me? I never lost control that way, usually I cowered while someone else did. As quickly as it the fury had come, it was gone. The moment was a blur.

Whatever. Maybe I'd finally been shocked out of my complacent attitude. Maybe it was time to escape completely from enslavement. I'd been a piece of meat since I was twelve.

My mom had met Jared Quinn when I was about eleven. We were living in downtown Los Angeles, and she was a dancer. I had been an accident that nearly ruined her career; ballerinas aren't meant to get pregnant. She had fooled around with her manager, and he disappeared when he heard of the results.

She had no immediate family and no love of strangers, so she usually took me with her wherever she went until I began school. Even then, the area we lived in wasn't the best, so I couldn't stay at home when she was gone.

Instead, on days when I had no activities planned, she took me to her studio and left me in the back room to play dress-up with the racks of delicate production clothes. Tutus and gossamer skirts, corsets and bustier tops; all shades and fabrics. I tried on each and danced there with the pipes along the walls as a barre. She had begun teaching me when I was three, and then came gymnastics classes. When I was seven, she'd paid for private school. I tested into advanced programs, and she was ecstatic.

We went to the library every weekend, staying there for hours curled up in the wall-nooks. She would read anything to me if I asked, and so my world got bigger.

My mother was a delicate but strong woman; and like many ballerinas she was exceptionally thin. I remember the shape of her collar bones, and how they felt against my cheek.

She had clear blue eyes and white-blonde hair. Her left foot had a tattoo of a lavender flower, its stem curling delicately around her ankle. It was a sort of name tag. Lavender, the ballerina. My mother.

I wanted to look like her, fragile and pretty. I felt I was too short, too thickly muscled. I had the body of a gymnast, and it soon became my favorite activity. I loved knowing that I could do things other people thought were impossible. I flipped and did hand stands everywhere I could, and she continued to teach me to dance.

Two days after my eleventh birthday, she met Jared. He was the manager of one of her dancer friends, who assured my mother that he was safe. She was wrong.

A month after he'd met Lavender, his earlier 'client' disappeared. He then came back for my mom. I learned later that he had been dealing cocaine to the dancers in the company, to keep them thin.

He took her out one night, convincing her to leave me at home. When she came back, she wasn't herself. She was lethargic and empty and had no patience for me. As weeks passed, she stopped reading and would leave me at home for long periods. She barely spoke to me, just watched TV or locked herself in her room. I couldn't understand her rejection, why she didn't dance or talk to me or do anything anymore. One day there was just nothing in the fridge, so I ate the canned stock we had. She didn't cook or even eat anymore.

I went to school one day and was sent home with a notice warning of unpaid tuition. Letters from the gymnastics academy claimed the same. When I showed up to class, the instructor pulled me aside. She called me Helena, my full name. As if I hadn't known her my whole life. She told me that I couldn't come anymore, that my mother hadn't kept up with the bills. I ran out in tears.

I hated her then. I hated her for changing and twisting. For taking my gymnastics, my school, my books. For being so distant and unresponsive.

I got home and screamed at her skinny form on the couch. Anger and heartbreak pouring from me until I was hoarse, I asked her why she had left me and taken everything with her. She looked up at the ceiling vacantly, her eyes open but the pupils too small. She smelled sick, chemicals emanating from her pores. She didn't even turn towards me. I marched to the side of the couch and slapped her, thinking it would wake her up from her stupor or make her look at me. It didn't. She was clammy and unresponsive.

I grabbed her face in fear, looking in her eyes again. I yelled her name and still got nothing. I begged her to wake up, even if she was still a shell. I still needed her, Lavender, my mother the ballerina.

Dialing 911 took too long, talking to the woman took too long, and waiting for them took too long.

They declared her dead upon their arrival, and a woman took me to the side to tell me. She crouched down and put her hands on my shoulders, trying to be comforting. She explained what a heroin overdose was. She asked if I knew who my mother had been getting the drugs from.

My only response was to scream at her that she was lying, and run to the couch. They'd tried to revive her there and so then did I.

Sobbing and clutching at her, I asked her to come back. Please, to wake up and hug me and tell me her collar bones meant she'd be a bird in the next life.

She didn't listen to me, as she hadn't for months. Her blue eyes stayed open wide, tiny black dots in the centers, but she wasn't looking at me.

I'd lost her months ago, but this time was quite different. I'd always thought she'd come back one morning and dance again, and teach me new steps and choreography in the little back room. She'd make breakfast and I'd make her laugh and she'd be all mine again.

But it never happened, and this time there wasn't even a possibility to hold on to. She would never wake up. She'd never speak to me again. She'd never dance. She'd never do anything ever again.

I hated her for it.

I met Jared the next day at the LAPD. He had come to pick me up, said he was my father. He knew a few of the cops there, and so he got his way. In front of them, he crouched down and gave me a gold ring. He said it would have been hers, he had wanted to give it to her a long time ago, but now he was going to give it to me. He said he'd take care of me, that I'd be okay. He hugged me with real tears in his eyes. He'd loved her, he said, and so he loved me, an extension of her.

We walked out, his arm around my shoulders.

Two weeks later we had moved to Phoenix, Arizona. It was my twelfth birthday, and the day I became a prostitute. He sent me to the other girls on the streets, telling them to instruct me.

I come back to myself, on the shower floor. The water is running cold, and my face is blank.

I step out of the shower, towel off, and apply lotion. Then I haphazardly bandage my hand with a few large band-aids I'd found in a drawer during my search.

Unfortunately, I had nothing to change into but my grimy clothes from the night before. A thought comes to me, the bedroom. I didn't search it, forgetting its existence since the mattress had been in the living room. Leaving the bathroom quickly, I make my way towards (hopefully) some new clothes and shoes.

The closet is stocked, luckily for me, with women's clothes. Someone spread them all over the floor, presumably in their hurry to get to the (now open and empty) safe. Whoever had lived here was a bit bigger than me, but I find some clothes around my size. I choose a black, long-sleeve v-neck; a pair of heavy, dark jeans; and white running shoes. My hair is strapped into a tight ballerina bun to keep it out of my face. I make sure to grab a shard of knife-like glass from the kitchen floor, tucking it into my back pocket, and then head to the front door just as it opens.

The Joker steps in, ignoring my queasy surprise and looking me over.

"Hi there, Harls. Whatcha doin?" I look at him warily. He seems to be calm, almost sane.

"I found some clothes?" My voice goes up in a question, though I don't mean to I'm asking for his approval at my taking them.

"Yeah." His eyes are glazing over in boredom, the word just punctuating the silence. He doesn't care, it was a false question.

"Can I, um, leave?" His attention snaps back to me. Apparently I asked the million dollar question.

"Wull, I, ah, dunno Haaaarley. _Can_ ya?" He doesn't look irritated, just interested in my response.

"_May I _leave your highness?" The sarcastic, bitchy response comes out without my consent, and I mean that in every sense. I hadn't even thought of a reply, hadn't thought to open my mouth. Someone else had. The voice in my head was now the voice in my mouth. I freeze in place and stare at him, waiting for physical retaliation. Instead, he looks at me and laughs delightedly.

"Theeere she is!" He darts toward me and pins me to a wall, but it's no longer me. The second he grabs my shoulders, she takes over again.

"Get the _fuck_ off of me or I swear to _hell_ I'll fucking _murder_ you!" 'My' voice is higher and sharper than I thought I could ever make it. It's a mix of cheerleader and psychotic rage. I'm shoved into a back corner of my mind, somehow. Seeing everything but not in control.

The Joker thinks it's funny as hell. He lets 'me' go just to bowl over, clutching at his stomach and giggling shrilly.

'I' don't get the joke.

"What's so damn funny, you _creep_?" He regains control and goes for 'me' again, but 'I' won't have it. 'I' attempt to shove him away and kick him in the groin, but he deflects 'me' easily, pinning my arms above my head with one hand. All the while high-pitched chuckles are coming out through his nose. They have a violent edge now.

"Shh, now listen ta me dollface, you aren't, uh, always _like _this. So, ah, who's in there, hmm? Who's gotcha all _cuhhrazy?"_

'I' snarl at him, baring my teeth and hissing, "_Let me go you _DICK."

He grabs my jaw, squeezing painfully.

"Uhh, come again, sweetheart?" He lifts his brows, acting earnest, pretending he didn't hear. It's a warning, but whoever's running my show doesn't heed it.

"Uhh, _fuck you_?" 'I' mock his tone and try to spit at him, but the grip on my jaw just gets tighter.

The Joker narrows his eyes at me dangerously, turning his head to the left to look at me out of one black-ringed iris. He screws up his mouth and bites one scarred cheek, but before he can say anything, 'I' change tactics.

'I' smile flirtatiously.

"Aw, c'mon puddin! Can't take a joke?"


	5. Chapter 5

_She _leaves, as suddenly as she'd taken over. I'm thrown back in control with a sense of emptiness I can't shake. _Alone. Alone and weak_. But I can still hear her whispering faintly in the back of my mind. It eases my anxiety for some reason.

The Joker's looking at me, his annoyance having apparently turned to intrigue. He's still gripping my jaw firmly and narrowing his eyes, but his expression is unfathomable; hidden by make-up and —I assumed— lots of practice.

I didn't know a lot about him and his stance in the city, but from his comments about my not watching news and the respect he obviously inspired, I figured he was a major crime boss. I'd lived in quite a few cities as a part of their underworld, and I'd never seen anything like him. He embodied dominance, there was no way he was a small player.

The name 'Batman' however did ring some bells. He'd been on national news, the vigilante who was taking on the most crime-ridden city in America. Someone had caught him on their phone camera, a few seconds of grainy footage showing his fighting prowess. He never killed the criminals, just beat them unconscious, disarming them in moments with a nearly supernatural style of combat. That had been around…eight months ago? I could barely remember. Some speculated on his insanity, some called him a hero. Blah Blah Blah. I had other things to worry about.

Jared had moved me and the other girls here to Gotham about two weeks before —not quite his choice, he'd finally been pinned down by cops in Chicago for his hobby of running an inter-state prostitution ring—and I'd been too preoccupied to recognize the significance of the city. We'd integrated ourselves into the Narrows without any problems; after all, in a city this bad, more hookers disappeared than came into the business. No one minded a few more; it brought customers to the drug dealers.

Jared, the six other girls, and I had set up shop at one of the many abandoned motels, only having to fight off a few junkies. Territory in this town was whatever you could get by cutting a few throats, just like the cities before it. There was a pattern to the criminal life that was easily identifiable: baddest wins.

Now Joker… Joker was something new. He was definitely the baddest, but he seemed to go about it in a different way. He obviously saw henchmen as completely expendable, which wasn't new; but he didn't mind—in fact rather enjoyed, from my experience— getting his hands dirty. The mobsters I had known were mostly talk; if they wanted you dead… well that's what the average Joe was for.

The Joker was utterly unique; dress, speech, methods, and make up if you'll disregard the play on words. I didn't know what to make of him, but I'd be happy to stay in that state of confusion to know what exactly he wanted from _me_ and get it over with. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who was ruled by sex, and he hadn't advanced in any way, though I had been very obviously claimed as territory. So what use did he have for me?

I'm still lost in thought when the man himself speaks:

"Hellooo? Is, uh, anyone home? I'd like to speak to _Harley_ if she's in the _building_." He releases my jaw to rap comically on my forehead, and I find myself on the verge of a giggle, which I immediately smother with pure disgust. He isn't _funny_ he's _awful. Wake up Harley. Christ._

" I'm—What what is it? What did you want and can you please let my arms go…"

"Anyone ever tell you you're kinda _strange_, doll? I mean one minute," he steps back and lets me go to gesture exaggeratedly at the air (which seems to be a habit of his), "you're having a lil… _hissy fit _and the next you're all… _boring_ again. What gives?"

"I'm sorry." I reply impulsively and rub at my wrists.

"See? Boring." He tsks at me disapprovingly, lowering his animated brows, crossing his arms, and pulling his mouth into a mocking frown.

"Well what am I supposed to say?"

"Ahh. Now _theeeere's_ a problem. Never say what anyone wants ya to say, it'll keep people on their _toes_."

I can't help myself; my penchant for being a smart ass has flared up again.

"I like purple too." The cynical sarcasm is well hidden.

He looks wildly confused for a few seconds, and then looks at me with an almost feminine distaste, but doesn't speak.

"If you're going to kill me, why are you giving me instructions?" I'm thinking out loud, hardly expecting his reaction. He gives a small but genuine smirk, and I see that my antics have actually pleased him, somehow. For a second I can see a strange glimpse of humanity in a finally familiar, unexaggerated expression, but it's gone as soon as I notice, and he stalks forward again.

He hunches over to get right in my face, bracing his hands on the wall intimidatingly on either side of me… and just stares. I'm getting increasingly annoyed and contemplating punching him right in his fucking psychotic clown face when I realize that my little mental 'friend' is wildly struggling to communicate something.

She's feeling something that I can't identify, almost like excitement. My chest gives a little flutter.

I keep digging until I start to recognize it, but then recoil in horror. It's just my unconscious, playing sick tricks on me.

Like when you see a horror movie, and you think about what it would be like to be the killer. Or an accomplice. What it would be like to not care what people or rules, respectively, you broke, as long as you got what you wanted. Just a thought. Only a thought.

Right?

I'm breathing too fast now, but trying to calm down proves fruitless. That can't be _me_, can it? This _other_ inside me was just repressed unconscious thoughts, nightmares. It had no power that I didn't give it_. She _had no power over _me_. But she did, and I knew it. She had taken control of my actions before, and when it would happen again was anyone's guess. It's disconcerting, knowing that at any given moment control of your own body can just be taken away. No warning, no telling when it'll be given back. But when she'd been torn away, I was left with that feeling of horrible emptiness. My head had been too spacious, I could practically hear the echo of my own thoughts without her voice to drown out the awful silence.

I stare back into the eyes of my current captor, feeling more than a spark of defiance. I'm so tired of being helpless, of being the little girl that every _employer _and his _henchm__e__n_ could shove into submission. I'd used this anger to get away from Jared, finally I'd been furious enough to forget possible death, and look where I'd landed; right back in captivity; this time with someone who struck me as quite a bit more dangerous, with a few _generous pinches _of mentally unstable.

Then again, who was I to talk about mental stability? The _voice in my head_ was _excited _that she was being physically intimidated by the man who'd killed two people in front of me. I wasn't exactly the epitomic example of _mental health_, now was I?

I smirk unconsciously, having once again forgotten where I am and who I'm face to face with. The smirk turns into a full grin before I can stop myself, and then I'm snorting wildly, hands covering my mouth. I slide down the wall and succumb to the giggles I've held in since I first realized that…well… I didn't have to worry about Jared anymore! The thought makes me laugh harder and harder, until I'm pounding my fist on the floor with tears streaming across my cheeks. I know that the Joker's staring at me, but that's all my blurred vision can make out.

And all the while she's there in the back of my mind, laughing along.

It lasts a minute before the Joker grabs me by the arm and hauls me back to my feet. I brace for the worst, hysterics cut off with the threat of pain. I'm waiting for him to hit me or pull a knife and start slashing my face or something equally horrible, but he doesn't. His expression is one of sarcastically earnest patience.

"Yer doin it again, Harls. Going all _cuhhraaazy_. But as much _fun_ as this is, watchin yer lil, uh, _breakdown_? We, uh, have _work_ to do, so…" He motions loosely with a finger for me to go out the door he came through, smacking his lips and rolling his eyes around like this is the most boring thing he has ever been forced to endure.

I step towards the door and feel a hard shove on the small of my back.

"Uh, pick up the _pace_, sweet cheeks." His tone is dark and dangerous. All patience has apparently evaporated. Taking the hint, I get moving.

We meet two guys outside the door. Their faces are covered in eerie vinyl clown masks (grumpy and dopey from the looks of it) and they're holding guns of cartoonish size; assault rifles of some kind. Joker takes the lead and they take the rear, making sure to prod me, quite unnecessarily, with their weapons.

Prick-waving creeps. I wonder who's under the masks, if it's the same two guys from the night before, but it doesn't really matter, does it?

I take in the sight of the violet-clad, homicidal chap walking ahead of me. He's at least six feet tall, probably an inch or two above, making it easy to tower above me. At 5'2", I can't even see where we're going.

He seems to fill up the small hallway, height exaggerated by his thinness and broad shoulders, not to mention a quite literally killer aura. I notice that he moves with a sort of easy, fluid grace, though he hunches his shoulders strangely.

As far as I can tell from peering around his imposing figure, we're heading down a robin's egg blue hallway. There are wall sconces every few paces, unlit, and a few boring paintings of fruit and landscapes. The carpeting is pale ivory.

There are cracks in the walls, peeling paint, and the only light comes from the windows of apartments whose doors are broken in or missing. There's no sound, and it unnerves me. I'm tempted just to start yelling or to speak to the Joker again, even his goons. Anything to stop the terrible silence.

It's only been a minute, maybe less, but I feel like I'm suffocating. Caught between clowns and a playing card. How very poetic.

We finally end up on a large, decorative stairwell, and I realize we're not in an apartment building but a very abandoned once-swanky hotel. It was probably the height of fashionable luxury a year or two ago, but now the marble steps are chipped and dull. Trash and broken glass litter the floor, mixed in with leaves.

The joker pauses to turn towards me to execute a mockingly polite _ladies first _gesture.

I don't argue, but I do slow down so that I can see what he's doing in my peripherals. I'd rather not be shoved down the stairs, and he seems like the guy who would think that was the height of comedic expression.

My fears are unrealized, though, because he takes the steps two at a time, one gloved hand on the banister, and catches up with me.

"So, uh_, Harley_, whatcher last name?"

"Quinn. My last name is Quinn." My mother's name was Lavender Quinn, and then there was Jared Quinn, who had so easily procured legal guardianship. A sick coincidence I could never quite believe; the name wasn't all that common. I had always suspected he was my father, though he had never admitted as much. He'd been about the right age, I guessed. Mid-thirties.

The Joker is looking at me with an expression I can't quite read, chewing thoughtfully on his cheeks. After a few seconds he lets them back out with a smack and grins from ear to ear. He looks positively gleeful, which can't be good news for me. We've reached the first floor but it seems that neither of us notices. We stop walking, staring at each other with apprehensiveness and excitement, respectively.

"Harley Quinn?"

"Is there a… problem?"

"Not a problem _darlin_, just, ah… a funny lil…_coincidence_, see?"

I narrow my eyes in annoyance. Sooner or later, they all came up with the same thing. Kids in school, the other working girls, Johns… They always came up with Harlequin. It got old real fast, and I was not about to be made fun of by a guy who called himself the _Joker._

And then I realized what he really meant. He'd made me into a clown, but that wasn't the point. The point was that I was like him. An extension of him. It wasn't just the name; it was how it related directly to his identity. Harley Quinn. He was acting like it was all orchestrated for him.

"Lil Harleyquinn…" He's speaking half to himself, so I don't deign to reply. The clowns join us on the ground floor, at which point he throws an arm around my waist and leads us all outside.

I try to keep the grimace off my face, half wishing that _she _would just take over again so I wouldn't have to deal with any of it. Once I search for her, though, I notice that she's not there anymore. There's no whispering, no giggles, no random shouts. Nothing.

The panic starts up again_. Alone and weak alone and weak and alone. _She's not there, which means I have no one.

For the past few months she'd been stronger and stronger, and it had culminated in her taking over my actions. But now she was nowhere. The familiar voice was gone, and I was left behind. It was a bizarrely incomplete feeling that I couldn't deal with.

Quickly I think back to the last time I heard her. Back in the hotel room, when I started laughing. No before that, she had been excited and then… nothing. I had started laughing. No reason for it, in the face of a psychopath, broken down laughing. And that's when she had disappeared.

A little shock of a flashback hits me.

It's odd the things you look for when you first see a person, but it bothered me that I hadn't been able to tell how old she was; with heroin addicts you couldn't discern fifteen from forty if they've used for more than a year. Remembering the drug brings a physical sting, but I shove it aside impatiently. My mother is dead; I can't do anything about it.

The girl was camped out in an alleyway I had walked through to get back to Jared's 'home' for us, more than halfway hoping I'd meet trouble. It had been back in Chicago, a month or two ago. She was disgustingly thin, the kind where every bone was clearly visible. It was late October, but all she wore was a stained white tank top and white underwear. Her arms and legs were purple, with both cold and track marks, a few discarded needles littered around her. She sat heavily against the brick wall, pupils only slightly smaller than her brown iris', blood on her nose and sores on her arms. Her hair hung in lank brown strands to her shoulders.

There was nothing strange about a junkie in an alleyway, even one as obviously bad as this one, but something about her stuck in my mind.

She had been laughing.

Laughing in high, keening screeches and gurgling chuckles. Not hysterically, not as if she was just high. But with her rotted teeth bared, paying no attention to the cold or the state of herself. Just laughing.

I remember how I'd wanted to cry and laugh along with her, because for some reason I had assigned a sort of poetic meaning to the pathetic scene; because she wasn't just laughing, and I saw that. I saw what it really was.

Despite the blood dripping from her nose and what had caused it, despite the freezing cold, despite the sores and the sickness and the abuse she had undoubtedly suffered just for this fix; she was laughing despite it all.

She was saying a royal fuck you to the entire world. She just didn't care.

And now, I realized. Neither did I.


End file.
